


Fragrance

by magumarashi



Series: Lacewood drabbles [2]
Category: Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2019-03-13 07:07:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13565406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magumarashi/pseuds/magumarashi
Summary: When you're in love with someone, you notice some weird shit about them.





	Fragrance

She loved the way he smelled.

It’s a strange thing to think, when you put it into words like that. She loved coming into his arms and burying her face in the linen of his shirt. He smelled of sweet spices–his deodorant, she assumed–but also of something that she couldn’t quite put a name to. He was the only thing in the world that smelled that way, except sometimes when she’d spent a long time with him and his scent lingered on her clothes. It was comforting and familiar.

She knew the citrus of his shampoo from the times she’d nuzzled his hair; the wine on his breath after a night on the town. She’d memorized the perfumes that he sometimes used to send important letters–he was nothing if not attentive to detail. He had different fragrances for apologies, for requests, for condolences and for good wishes. Sometimes she wondered if she would ever receive a perfumed letter from him, but she realized that even then it wouldn’t be the same. He didn’t smell like his perfumes, not when you were close to him, nose buried in his shirt.

She found herself wondering how he thought she smelled–if he could smell the lavender under her arms or the chocolate on her lips or the raspberry in her hair. Could he tell that she used a specific detergent to launder her clothes? And, more than that, she began to wonder about her _own_ scent–the one that he wouldn’t be able to put a name on if he tried, because the only thing that would come to mind was “Serena”. She wondered if a bit of her lingered on his clothes after they parted, and if he spent time taking in her scent and wishing she was still there.

And, perhaps more than any of the above, she wondered how he might react if she told him she was fond of the way he smelled. Perhaps he would smile to himself, knowing that his extra effort with citrus and sweet spices had not been wasted. Or perhaps it would take him by surprise–he wasn’t trying to make an impression on her that way; he was simply using scented products for their intended purpose. And yet, their combined effect had endeared him to her all the more. 

But neither of those spoke anything to his own scent, the “Augustine Sycamore” that she could smell beneath the spices and lingered on her clothes. 

That scent was her favorite, out of the veritable apothecary of fragrances that reminded her of him–the one scent that she could find nowhere else.


End file.
